


Instruments of Pleasure

by JackPhryne4eva



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Bondage, Dream Sex, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Mild S&M, Multi, Multiple Partners, Past Relationship(s), Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4137975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackPhryne4eva/pseuds/JackPhryne4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phryne lay nestled in her luxurious bedding moaning in her sleep.<br/>Jack lay moaning in his narrow bed.<br/>Within their respective subconscious minds, they were playing out scenes that bordered between erotic fantasy and painful horror.<br/>Freud and his disciples would have spent many a delicious lecture debating Phryne’s and Jack's subconscious desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Instruments of Her Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> Part of Miss Fisher's Kink Bingo Challenge put forth by projectcyborg
> 
> Thank you to all of those who made my enjoyment of Miss Fisher possible: Kerry Greenwood, Cloud Productions, ABC, Netflix, and every fic writer who helped bridge that terribly dark time between Seasons 2 & 3.  
> Note this writing is based on characters and plot lines by Kerry Greenwood and MFMM. Specifically references recognizable scenes and characters from Seasons 1-3, no direct spoilers for Season 3.

Instruments of Her Pleasure

A low moan was heard from Miss Fisher’s room one early morning. Dot thought it best to wait until later to take in her tea tray. She hadn’t realized that Miss Fisher was entertaining, in fact, she’d rather thought that Miss Fisher had stopped inviting gentlemen callers to her boudoir since she and Inspector Robinson had come to their understanding. Then a different train of thought occurred to Dot, which colored her cheeks an attractive pink as she quietly released the door handle and retreated back downstairs.

Meanwhile behind the firmly closed door of the aforementioned boudoir…

Phryne lay nestled in her luxurious bedding moaning in her sleep.  
Within her subconscious, Phryne’s mind was playing out a scene that bordered between erotic fantasy and painful horror. Freud and his disciples would have spent many a delicious lecture debating about Phryne’s subconscious desires.

 

Phryne opened her eyes and saw that she was dressed in a gown she had once told Sasha DeLisse was “Melbourne’s most stunning.” The red velvet hung beautifully from the narrow straps and allowed the gold satin underlay to peek out. She attempted to move then realized she had been bound hand and foot to a large dartboard not unlike the one at Farrell’s Circus. She pulled at the cuffs but instead of allowing her to draw her wrist nearer and pick the lock with her hair clip, the chains pulled tighter until her arms and legs formed a perfect X against the giant dartboard. 

As a bright spotlight temporarily blinded Phryne, the master of ceremonies (ring master?), stepped into the spotlight with a flourish of her glossy black top hat and a deep bow to the audience. She was wearing the classic black tuxedo jacket with gold waistcoat and bowtie. Her black riding pants and boots were complemented by a long riding crop she carried in her right hand. The droll voice of Doctor Elizabeth MacMillan announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, by special arrangement, The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher will reprise her role as the Fabulously Fearless Miss Fern.” Phryne blinked into the gloom beyond her stage (there really was no other name for where she was now) and was rewarded with shadowy glimpses of people seated in rows before her. The crowd erupted into applause as Ringmaster Mac concluded her introduction with a smack of her crop on the wooden dartboard and Phryne flashed her wide stage smile.

Mac turned back and began to address the crowd with rising excitement in her voice.  
“Ladies and gentlemen, our own Duke of the Dagger, Nobleman of the Knife, Captain of the Cutlass Jack Robinson will endeavor to hit the numbers called out from members of our audience.” The gasps and murmurs of the audience built to a thunderous crescendo of applause as Jack stepped into the light of the stage and with a grim flourish befitting the tension of the moment bowed to the rapturous audience and Phryne. 

Jack was dressed as a true circus performer—a flowing white shirt drawn snug by a red velvet vest with gold buttons and accents. His brown riding jodhpurs and shiny black boots completed the image of the dashing rogue. His shirt, Phryne immediately noticed, was open revealing Jack’s throat and a narrow V of his chest. Of their own accord, Phryne’s eyes were drawn to the hollow between his collarbones. She licked her lips imagining the taste of his sweat to gather there during the exacting, knife-throwing performance. The risk of pain, the thrill of an audience, Jack unbuttoned, his exposed skin, Phryne’s pleasure was sharpened to a knife’s edge before a blade had even been thrown. She felt the sharp heat settle between her legs and drew a shuddering breath to calm herself. She was confident that Jack would not harm her, and yet… she shivered with anticipation of the knife striking the board. 

Ringmaster Mac’s voice brought Phryne’s attention back to the present by soliciting the first number, “Is there anyone brave enough to take on our Jack Robinson?” A man’s voice with a French accent called out “4!” As the number 4 was located near Phryne’s left thigh, she felt sure that Jack would waste no effort hitting his mark. With confident smile, Jack took the blade in hand, positioned his strong hands carefully and let it loose. With a resounding thunk that Phryne felt as well as heard, the knife was buried deep. Phryne grinned lasciviously at Jack, as the audience praised Jack’s prowess with greater applause. 

Yet Jack didn’t see Phryne’s look as he had turned to bow to the audience and to face a different man now coming onto the stage. As this man stepped into the light, Phryne recognized Sasha DeLisse. The crowd seemed to hold its breath as he approached Phryne and smoothly slid his hand down the velvet on her thigh. Sasha leaned in to graze his teeth on Phryne’s ear and neck. Torn between the pleasures of Sasha’s skills and her bewilderment about the crowd, Phryne looked up to see Jack watching the two with interest. Crouching lower, Sasha moved his hands under the crimson dress, and drawing it up exposed her legs. Phryne’s skin felt on fire where Sasha’s fingers glided up past her stockings and garters. Looking down, Phryne saw Sasha turn his head to place kisses on her inner thigh. “Just a little higher,” Phryne murmured as she felt his nose skim between her thighs. Smiling, Sasha released Phryne’s dress as he stood and walked, a little less gracefully than usual, off stage. 

Panting now, Phryne felt tighter bound than the chains could ever make her, but she forced herself to pay attention to what new exquisite torture was planned for her. Now Jack’s behavior seemed less stoic performance and more a delicate balance between curiosity and annoyance. Phryne remained assured that Jack could never willing harm her regardless of his feelings about her gentlemen callers.

For the second time, Mac, in her role as announcer, requested numbers from the audience, “Who thinks they can top that performance?” And a resounding “11!” was heard. Jack looked over his sharp stilettos, then made his selection before rounding on Phryne. A quick snap of his wrist and Phryne saw the blade strike inches above her right arm. The audience gasped at the near miss then clapped approval for Jack’s performance. Turning her head in the direction of the audience member’s voice, Phryne saw a black actor step into the limelight. With an ironic smile, the slave leader from Ray’s Bride of Babylon, touched the handcuffs at her wrists. So exquisite was his delicate touch that Phryne whimpered. Then he bent over and licked a sensual path down her exposed throat and chest. Stroking her breasts through the fabric, he caused Phryne’s nipples to respond and grow into tight peaks. When he smacked her soundly on the backside, Phryne’s shock of pleasure was tempered by Jack’s frown and the gathering's tittering. The actor smoothed away any sting and with a final sweet kiss, returned to the audience.

Again Mac solicited a number from the audience, “A touching scene that may leave its mark on the hearts and backsides of many. Who dares to try for something more irresistible?” Phryne heard a confident Australian man call out “1!” from the shadows beyond the pool of light. Phryne quickly scanned for number 1 and found it under her left hand. With a resolved expression, Jack drove his third knife just under her left wrist. This time, the applause deafening as Jack looked to see the man to be revealed by the spotlight. Instead Phryne watched Jack’s expression. When Warwick Hamilton emerged from the gloom, Jack’s frown deepened. Phryne knew this must be a different torture for Jack to witness, but was yet unable to summon the desire to stop her own pleasure.

Warwick Hamilton did not slow until he was upon her. While the audience whistled its appreciation, Warwick’s hands caressed her bare arms, her shoulders, her breasts. He wound his arms around her and touched her exposed back before dipping to touch her waist. Warwick gripped her hips and pressed her into him. Phryne’s thwarted desire to touch him back made her nip at his lips to capture them in a deeply penetrating kiss. Pulling up the edge of her velvet dress, Warwick ground his erection against Phryne’s core then withdrew, leaving Phryne aching with loss. Jack was focused on his table of daggers and did not look up at her.

For a fourth time, Mac called for a number, “While satisfying a woman’s body is pleasurable for some, who thinks they can also capture her heart?” Although several voices fought for dominance, a man’s persuasive voice with a slight Chinese accent called out “Number 9!” and Jack flinched. Even though the audience hooted its impatience to Jack, he determinedly selected his knife. Taking careful aim, Jack hit the 9 a hair too close to Phryne’s right shoulder. The audience was driven to frenzy. Lin Chung strode past Jack and up to Phryne’s side. With a tenderness that belied the situation, Lin sent ripples of pleasure down Phryne’s side when he placed warm, open kisses to Phryne’s shoulder and arm. God that man could make her insides molten. She turned her head to accept a kiss that sizzled on her tongue. Gone were the audience catcalls, the spotlight. Lin pressed his body against hers and she felt her hips responding by grinding into his erection. She felt her warm wetness slick her thighs. Gone were the watching, pained eyes of… Jack? Sensing the change in her attentions, Lin slowed his lips and stepped back. Giving her a slight bow, he moved out of the light. Phryne moaned out her need for release—from these shackles that chafed at her wrists and ankles, from her physical need unsatisfied by the parade of men. 

The waiting audience looked to Jack who awaited the announcement from Mac, “A woman craves pleasure for her body and her heart. But who dares to unleash her adventurous side?”

This final request for a number brought “6!” which to Phryne seemed almost anti-climactic. That number was near her foot. The crowd too murmured its disappointment as Jack smirked sardonically and threw his dagger to rest on number 6. Not even deigning to look at the man now approaching, Jack resignedly turned away from Phryne. Captain Lyle Compton grinned at Phryne then dropped to his knees at her feet. The crowd leaned forward so as not to miss the action. Taking up her right leg, he reached under her dress. Feeling the slippery wetness between her thighs, Compton followed the path to her dark curls and easily pushed two fingers into Phryne’s folds. With his thumb rubbing circles over her clitoris, he drew his roughened fingers in and out in a rhythm that soon had Phryne glad she was chained upright. Before a shattering release could sweep through her, he withdrew his fingers and sucked them into his mouth with a sly grin. Adjusting himself into a standing position again, Compton gave a loose salute and marched off. 

The audience, beside itself with want for a satisfying finish to the performance, hollered to Jack. Slowly, with stony expression, Jack turned to face Phryne. Even at this distance, she could see the fire blazing in Jack’s eyes. He could try to hide it from the audience, but she felt his tortured eyes on her, the pressure of his penetrating gaze. The pain he felt at seeing Phryne pleasured by these other men, men who tried to capture her heart, keep pace with her thrill-seeking. 

Before Mac could seek a number from the crowd, Jack uttered with a breath, “20.” The audience went deadly calm, then exploded into a cacophony of sound. With his final knife already in hand, Jack stared at Phryne. Her desire, her frustration, her impatience, her chagrin, her energy, her passion she would not hide from him or the audience. He coolly observed her heaving chest, her flushed skin, her quivering tension held in check only by the manacles. He knew how she had been brought to that state and who had brought her there.  
As the wall of sound died down, Jack moved into position.

She would not flinch from him.  
She would not give satisfaction to those who thought her afraid.  
She tensed like an arrow pulled back on a bow, arched against the board and waited to be pierced with Jack’s final knife.  
She held her gaze steady as Jack’s arm raised and released the dagger.

The sting of a neck graze was nothing as she regarded Jack’s triumphant smile.  
The noise of the audience was blotted out by Jack’s gentle murmurings.  
The thrill of past pleasures were forgotten as he softly approached.  
The abrasions from the restraints were ignored as he carefully released her.

She was consumed by a blaze that engulfed her when he touched her neck and spoke her name, 

“Miss Fisher.” Not Phryne?

“Miss Fisher?” He really sounded more feminine than she expected. 

“Miss Fisher?” That was not Jack.  
With a groan of crushing disappointment, Phryne answered Dot, “Yes?”  
“The Inspector is waiting for you in the parlour.”  
With a thrill of pleasures yet-to-come, Phryne called back, “I’ll be down immediately!” and flung back her bedclothes in order to dress.


	2. The Interval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack tried to rationalize the dream to himself after the fact. The stress of the case: two murders and nearly one more and an attempted suicide. Miss Fisher’s infuriating involvement: withholding his evidence not once but twice! her break and enter, chasing after and being shot at by a suspect, sliding off a rooftop, concealing a weapon (and using it in front of him!), stepping in front of Jack to stop Chaim Abrahams. Yes, this all helped to bring a murderer to justice and set an innocent woman free. 
> 
> Still. 
> 
>  
> 
> References events from Raisins and Almonds S1, E5  
> If you liked Ch 1, stick around for Chapter 3

Jack tried to rationalize the dream to himself after the fact. The stress of the case: two murders and nearly one more and an attempted suicide. Miss Fisher’s infuriating involvement: withholding his evidence not once but twice! her break and enter, chasing after and being shot at by a suspect, sliding off a rooftop, concealing a weapon (and using it in front of him!), stepping in front of Jack to stop Chaim Abrahams. Yes, this all helped to bring a murderer to justice and set an innocent woman free.  
Still. 

Then Miss Fisher came to him and he felt raw, vulnerable, anxious, expectant, compelled to speak before he could do anything, before she could say anything.  
Then his uncomfortable feeling of exposure when he admitted to Miss Fisher his deep shame, Rosie’s departure for her sister’s home, his resolute decision to honor the bonds of marriage. 

None of this quite explained what had happened in his subconscious mind.

Yes, she often moved too close, terribly close to him when speaking in those hushed tones and looked at him like a panther sizes up larger prey, choosing the right moment to maximize success and minimize collateral damage. 

Even now, after waking, he shivered when recalling the predatory look she gave him. 

Yes, she was extremely sensual—all manner of colors, patterns, textures, sounds, and scents. Her assault of his senses could not be denied. 

His dreaming self became caught in her allure, found himself drawn to her aroma, the hypnotic rhythm of her voice, the silky softness of her dress, the brilliance of her smile. 

Yes, she was highly sexual, unabashedly so. And while that had initially shocked him, he realized that she could do whatever she chose to do with that lithe, agile body. 

And how easily his dreaming self had succumbed to what she chose.

 

Yes, telling Miss Fisher about Rosie had been necessary to avoid being devoured by her. 

 

Regardless that their actions had happened only in his mind, that still did not justify the clarity and extent of his dream. He had not felt discontented to let go of that particular aspect of his life. Rosie and he had not been amorous, well, obviously since her departure, but before then as well. And, if he was going to analyze this, he must be totally honest; he had not felt amorous since the War. No one had turned his head in years. Not even Rosie, to her dismay. No one had given him reason to reconsider his quiet rooms, his narrow, cold bed. They were sufficient for his needs. 

However, he must admit that he now found enjoyment in the occasional grip of a smooth, soft hand on his arm. 

And the resolution of a case had broadened to include more than a satisfied signature on a pile of finished paperwork. A case was not successfully wrapped up until a glass of smoky whiskey was in hand and an assured, confident smile was aimed in his direction. 

And while those needs did not (yet?) involve a warm, welcoming body to lie beside, this still did not entirely explain what his brain had conjured.

Rather than feel nervous about Miss Fisher’s actions, he was ashamed (again!) to admit that during the dream he felt a thrill of excitement he normally felt during the chase of a suspect, the anticipation during a footie match.

 

And aroused. 

 

Given the circumstances of the dream, this was troubling too.  
Waking to find he had taken himself in hand and had a moan on his lips made him blush deeply now. He was not sure he could face Miss Fisher again... considering what they were doing together.

He was swept again into the memory of the intense dream.

 

*****

 

Sitting in his office, Inspector Robinson heard the click-clack of heels and a vivid  
“Good Morning Constable Collins!” answered with fumbled “Good M-morning Miss Fisher” by a flushed Hugh (he could tell even from in his office). 

In involuntary response, Jack’s insides coiled in anticipation. He adjusted the knot of his tie and looked for the flash of Miss Fisher’s bright eyes as she strode into his office. 

Today’s fashionable attire bordered on risqué: attractive legs clad in black silk stockings and slipped into purple T-bar shoes with black stitching, her body was draped in a drop-waisted deep V-neck dress in a purple and black geometric pattern with black slip underlay (leaving exposed Miss Fisher’s collarbones and knees!), topped off with a deep purple silk coat and purple cloche with black feathered detail.

“Inspector,” she drawled as she took up her usual perch on the edge of his desk and showed off her legs to their best advantage.

“Miss Fisher,” he nodded.

“Where shall we start this morning?” Her languid assessment of Jack’s attire started at his brown Oxfords, continued up the legs of his pressed navy suit, stalled at the creases at his upper thighs, swept across the buttons of his waistcoat, lingered at the knot of his tie, smirked at the bob of his Adam’s apple, then licked her own lips in response to seeing his mouth drift open at her blatant appraisal, before settling on his blue eyes.

He felt himself caught by her eyes and briefly imagined how a deer felt.  
“Ah… the suspect finally turned over the address of the club in exchange for leniency.”

“So, a verification of the facts as explained by the suspect? Your car or mine?” She asked in amusement.

 

Somehow, the car ride in the Hispano did not terrify him as much this time. That should have sent alarm bells to his conscious brain. 

Miss Fisher pulled the sleek car up to the kerb in a rather quiet and leafy section of Hawthorn. He was surprised the club was situated in so inoffensive a part of Melbourne given the type of crimes committed there.  
As she turned off the engine, Miss Fisher again looked over at him and as if reading his mind, smoldered, “There is no accounting for desire.”

They confirmed the Riversdale Court address and proceeded to quietly enter the unassuming yellow building with the assistance of Miss Fisher’s ever-present lock pick. Watching her draw the tool from her bodice sent a heat he usually refused to acknowledge straight to his groin.

Upon cursory inspection, the foyer and indeed the entire house seemed to be devoid of human habitation. And yet, there seemed to be a watching presence, a niggling something, insinuating itself and keeping him on the alert. Upon the second, more thorough, investigation, he moved through the rooms gathering evidence to corroborate the suspect’s statement.

The house was clean. Suspiciously so. Nevertheless the arrangement of furniture, a drawn curtain could provide enough evidence for a trial. In the foyer, Jack noted that the oval shaped entrance table bore the marks of recent damage—several recent gouges marred its surface. Down the hallway, he saw one light scrape high on the white wainscoting. The study through the first door on the left seemed initially free of evidence, then Jack noticed a scuff on the hardwood floor which showed the desk had been shifted. The red velvet curtains also had been hastily pulled as one of the gold tassels showed signs of being sloppily reattached to the tieback.

Re-entering the hallway, Jack felt an unsettling nervousness that stirred him to call, “Miss Fisher?” Where was she? Usually, she would be verbally sparring over some small discovery, rushing ahead, teasing back at him to catch up. What was she doing?

Miss Fisher responded with a muffled, “In here, Jack!” from back in the parlour.

Returning to the pale blue room off the left of the foyer, Jack initially could not pinpoint Miss Fisher’s location. From behind the brown leather divan set beneath the window, Miss Fisher rose up from a crouched position. She was grinning widely and holding up a small white button, “Now I have him.”

Given that the suspect was Miss Florence Whiting, Jack was momentarily confused.

Then Miss Fisher smoothed her hand down her thigh and slid up the skirt of purple and black silk to expose the top of her black stocking, its suspender and a knife sheath. Her hand ghosted over the hilt of the blade while her eyes caught his. 

He shuddered a breath, “You do.”

With a mesmerizing slowness, Miss Fisher pulled the sharpened dagger from its sheath and stalked towards Jack. Trapped by her glittering eyes and salacious smile, Jack froze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt idea came up during Slack conversation rewatch of Raisins and Almonds. I cannot recall who made the comment about Jack looking at Phryne as she pulled the knife from her garter sheath. Sorry!  
> Nevertheless this is for all of you who made my Friday night! That means you afterdinnerminx, babsmd, phrynef_ismyrolemodel, pfisherladydetective, michele02132, omgimsarahtoo, dedrajohnson, edeainfj, emmajsanta, jasbo, slackbot, foxspirit1928, sarahfrancesca!


	3. Instruments of His Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While searching an empty house for clues, Dreaming!Jack is held at knifepoint.
> 
> Drawing the knife up to his throat and pressing it to his pulse point, Miss Fisher breathed, “Take off your hat.”

Drawing the knife up to his throat and pressing it to his pulse point, Miss Fisher breathed, “Take off your hat.”

With a shiver of pleasure Jack felt flash down his spine, he carefully moved his hand to his fedora and pulled it off his perfectly slicked hair and dropped it to the floor without jostling Miss Fisher’s knife-wielding hand.   
That steady hand, pale and deadly. He wanted her to touch the skin at his throat.  
She smirked at Jack’s awkward predicament but had no intention of releasing him from her cunning knife or giving him what he craved.  
Yet.

Words, usually Miss Fisher’s weapons of choice, were nothing against the absolute authority she currently held, accentuated by her scent coiling around him tying him to the spot. Drawing in a deeper breath, he was lost as her perfume intoxicated him, imprinting on his limbic system. He would soon be her Pavlov lapdog, drooling and panting at her every gesture.

“Now the coat.”

Hesitantly, Jack shifted his shoulders and slid his overcoat down his arms and allowed it to join his hat. Hazarding a glance past her dagger, he saw the coat’s red lining pooled like blood at their feet.   
He could not (would not?) make a move to stop her dangerous pursuit when again her penetrating eyes seized his attention, “The jacket next.” 

With a release like a gentle sigh, it joined the coat on the hardwood floor. 

In spite of standing in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves (nearly bare!) to Miss Fisher, he felt warmer, fueled by a heat gathering in his chest and abdomen. Seeing the glint in her eyes, he eagerly awaited her next command hoping she would take this further, much further. 

 

Drawing out this exquisite moment, Miss Fisher adjusted her grip on the pearl-handled dagger and, while she maintained her eye contact with him, skillfully slid it down his red tie and across the buttons of his waistcoat. Responding to the flash of fear and building need warring in Jack's eyes, she returned her hungry eyes and the sharp point of the knife to his delicious skin of his throat. “Waistcoat.”

This time, his coiled tension began to betray him. His fingers struggled with the few buttons and Miss Fisher let escape a small huff of impatience. The final button was freed and the waistcoat, too, fell away. 

 

It was divine torture for Jack, watching her watch him, wanting this agony to continue, for her to continue stripping him at the point of her blade and sending him closer to the fevered edge of his naked lust usually bound so tightly.  
He let go of the breath constricting his chest and felt her knife press more keenly at his throat. 

 

“Tie.” Gingerly, he eased the Windsor knot loose from his neck and slipped the red fabric from under his shirt collar. Letting go, it slithered to join the previously fallen articles of his clothing.

“Braces.” While easing them from his shoulders and unhooking them from his trousers, he regarded Miss Fisher. The light reflecting off her shiny, black hair and the glossy wetness of her lipstick made him delirious with need, to feel her hair against his fingers, to crush her mouth to his. Her eyes buzzed with the thrill of asserting her desires over him. 

Bringing him back to himself was the faint clicking of her blade on each button of his white dress shirt and, in between, the slight pressure of a knife’s graze against his skin. She openly regarded his flushed face and dilated pupils and licked her lips in expectation. Immediately, blood surged to his groin betraying his pleasure. Miss Fisher’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Untuck your shirt.”

Accomplishing that, Jack nervously clenched his fists. Would he stop? Could he stop? Did he want to? God, no.

Miss Fisher considered his chest then leaned in closer and whispered, “Hold still.”  
Her hypnotic stare held him in place more than the knifepoint had. With tender delicacy she slipped the stiletto under the shirt placket, then with smirk directed at him, she forcibly sliced through all the threads holding the buttons.   
The buttons rained onto the wood, plink, plink, plink, each sending jolts through his limbs to his hardening cock pressing uncomfortably against the buttons of his trousers. 

Looking up at him with a feral expression, Miss Fisher demanded, “take it off.” 

Removing the ruined shirt and discarding it, he stood bare-chested, exposed to Miss Fisher’s searching eyes. 

Circling him, Miss Fisher drank in all she could see of Jack. Every blemish, every scar left upon his upper body open to her criticism, judgment, ridicule and yet her appetite was undiminished. If possible, she now looked ravenous, her mouth hanging open and her tongue flicking out to glaze her lips. Jack thought she appeared to be contemplating some sweet cruelty for the skin of his lower abdomen. Stepping in close, Miss Fisher used her lethal knife to lightly caress the skin from his right shoulder to his hard nipple down to the waistband of his suit trousers and then lower across the evidence of his miserable need. Quaking at this insufficient touch, Jack waited, waited.

Miss Fisher finally announced, “trousers,” and indicated that he should proceed with those buttons. With halting movements borne from shaking fingers (In relief? Anticipation?), Jack attempted to swiftly undo the buttons of his trousers. He again froze when, torturously, Miss Fisher stroked him with her knife from his hairline all the way down his back to the curve of his buttocks. 

He regained his composure and finally, finally moved to lower his trousers when Miss Fisher pressed warmly against him. Her hot breath panted across his chest and her right hand (!) skimmed under the front of his smalls and clutched at his hard cock. He moaned piteously.

*****

And woke up. 

And groaned.

Finding himself thusly engaged, his own hand wrapped around his rigid arousal, was not a shock (this wasn't the first time, nor the second, truth be told).   
The circumstances of his arousal-- stripping at knifepoint?-- was not an entirely pleasurable dream (but if he was to be honest; neither was it entirely deplorable-- hmm. This was an opportunity for further analysis). 

Nevertheless, the pulsing ache in his groin was nearly unbearable and immediate release necessary if he was to be presentable at City South.   
Gripping himself more firmly he stroked down his length. When approaching the base of his cock, he gave his wrist a clever twist, which increasing the tightness of his hold carried him further in the flood of his emotions.

His let his mind call back the images and he found his left hand creeping under his pajama top to graze across his nipples.   
As he imagined the blade of a dagger, her dagger, scratching against his right nipple, he shuddered at his own intensified arousal and, with a cry, climaxed.  
Then laying back on the bed, he shook off the lingering tension.

 

Now that his, immediate, needs were met, Jack felt he could rationalize the situation.  
While he had been focused on finishing cases, his physical needs seemed to have expanded to include Miss Fisher’s attentions.   
Given her proclivities for other men, many other men and for apparently short durations, any intimate relationship with Miss Fisher would prove to be disastrous for him.   
So to join in any more of her flirtatious attentions would not be preferable.   
Maintain status quo as associates and allow for nothing carnal to come between them. 

Rising from his narrow bed with firm resolve, he strode to the bathroom to complete his morning routine. After dressing and eating a light breakfast, Inspector Jack Robinson calmly drove to his usual shift at City South Police Station. 

_____________

Sitting in his office sometime later, Inspector Robinson heard the click-clack of heels and a vivid “Good Morning Constable Collins!” answered with “Good M-morning Miss Fisher” by a stammering Hugh (could he never maintain composure around the woman?) 

In betrayal, Jack’s insides involuntarily responded by coiling in anticipation of Miss Fisher’s sparkling eyes and heady perfume as she strode into his office. 

Jack cleared his throat and adjusted the knot of his tie.

"Hello, Jack! I've come to test my new throwing knives. Care to join me?"

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment as this is my first posted fic and am eager to know if I've hit my intended mark.


End file.
